First off, a rousing Mazel Tov! To Snoop Dogg, who won his court case against the folks at Immigration.  I had not thought that the Snoopster was a Dangerous Housewife from King of Prussia too; in fact, I never thought about him at all, until he was denied a visa to enter the UK.   Hey, Snoop…I feel your pain, Bro.

According to the London Guardian, Snoop’s grandpop was unfortunately not Italian, so he chose to hire a team of expensive lawyers instead and go head to head with the dreaded Tribunal.  And he won!  He got a precious visa to visit the UK.  I guess the Home Office was shizzolating in their y-fronts.  I’m going to ring and invite him round to mine for tea as soon as he arrives.  We can form a support group called ‘Yo, We Did It; You Can Get into Britain, Too’.

It was an interesting week; celebrating St. George’s Day, my first stint at Sam Beare, a date, and Quiz Night.

I went to a luncheon with Allison in honour of St. George.  I did not know that he was the patron saint of England.  I thought they just liked him a lot because of the dragon-slaying thingy.  I did point out that England doesn’t have a monopoly on St. George.  He is also the patron saint of Genoa, in my homeland.  San Giorgio is, naturally, better looking and better dressed (no surprise there) and carries a jug of Chianti instead of a sword.  Seriously, would you want to go out with an English bloke carrying a sword with dried dragon blood on it, or a hot Italian who provides the wine?  Exactly. 

Lunch was bangers & mash, with treacle pudding for the sweet; this was St. George’s favourite dinner.  Again, not that I’m comparing, in Italia, for Giorno di Festa San Giorgio they have Clams Casino and rigatoni and meatballs, followed by cannoli.

I know that lots of countries have patron saints, but I don’t think America has one.  It’s too bad really; there are never enough celebrations.  If we are forced, practically at gunpoint,  to celebrate Martin Luther King Day, we could have a patron saint day too.  I’m sure Pinkie will back me up that St. Nordstrom Rack would make a smashing feast day.  

I had a date with someone new.  I’m not sure what happened to British Commando Guy.  He rang and texted a few times, then he went on holiday.  It could have been ‘out of sight, out of mind’, but most probably he just got captured by some guerrillas in Sri Lanka or wherever.  Too bad.  I hope they torture him.  The new bloke is called Mike.  He is very tall (6’2”) and Scottish.  There was some serious piss taking from Pinkie about that ‘ethic’ thing.  I did ask him to wear his kilt when we met for coffee, but he declined.  We did make another date, so I’m sure all the steamy details will be blatantly reported in on my blog in Cyber-world and then discussed endlessly at the Grotto and the synagogue in future.

Oh my God!  I did my first stint as a volunteer at the Sam Beare Bookshop.  Can you imagine anything more wonderful than being surrounded by thousands of books, all of which you can take home and read for free?  You just have to bring them back when you’re finished.

I learned how to operate the till, and various procedures (we wear our key to the till on a plastic bracelet on our wrist and take the key out when we walk away from the counter.)  During slow periods, we restock the shelves, filling the gaps.  This is not as easy as it sounds; the main section is alphabetical, so you might need to replace two or three “S” authors and a “B” or whatever.  We also get to do the eye-catching window displays and the theme tables.  There’s a tiny kitchen in the back room so that we can have coffee and biscuits.  It is heaven. 

My shift was slow but steady.  The widowed Jewish cardiologist of my dreams didn’t turn up, but it was only the first day.  I did wow the socks off Pia, my supervisor, by recommending a Lisa Scottoline book to a woman who said she liked American mysteries.  “I know her” I boasted.  “She lives Berwyn, right near me.   Her novels all take place in Philadelphia.”  (Not really another whopper; I have met her twice at book signings at the Borders in Devon. In fact, the second time I pointed out to her that Bennie, the heroine, was going the wrong way on Wissahickon Pike in the book if she was trying to get to Chestnut Hill.)  Just to show how well informed I am, I added, “Her new book, which features Mary, the same character, just shot to Number Three on the New York Times Best Seller List.”  She bought all four books that I recommended.

I had double booked myself Thursday night.  I had committed to going with Julie to see Scratch at the Prince of Wales, and Cheese Boy was expecting me to do the Quiz.  He rang to say that Romeo and Juliet (aka Sandra and Whatshisname) weren’t coming, and neither was the Irish Lad.  Pinkie was coming after her shift.  So I cancelled on Julie and went to the Ash Tree with Lou.

It was a dreadful night…again.  I aced the ‘American’ questions easily, but failed to identify the ‘Italian landmark with 239 steps.’  Hey, I’ve only been an Italian citizen for five months;  I was American for – well, it was longer than five months.  Pinkie knew that one.  I failed miserably on the anagram, and once again, the Boy and I disagreed on an answer.  Question: “Which cartoon character’s superior was Colonel K?”  Me:  “I know this one!  Danger Mouse!”  Lou, to Pinkie:  “Whaddya think?  Do you have a clue?”  Me:  “Bloody hell, Lou!  It’s Danger Mouse!  I loved Danger Mouse.  David Jason was the voice of Danger Mouse.”  Lou, to Pinkie: “Could it be ‘Pinkie and the Brain? No? Any guesses?”  Me: “Sod you, Lou!  Danger Mouse!” 

I don’t know what he put down, but the correct answer was, of course, Danger Mouse.  We came in next to last.

Saturday was simply a dress rehearsal for Sunday night; Sunday was the communal seder at NWSS.

Sunday afternoon was brilliant; warm and sunny.  Just as I started getting dressed, it got cloudy and I could hear thunder, or jets landing at Heathrow, in the distance.  I stopped changing outfits after three times and left a little early to walk to the shul; a good decision, it turned out, since it started to rain when I was about a block away from the synagogue.

A friend from the States had sent me a ‘Passover Greeting’ which was a funny video clip from JibJab called ‘Matzah: Hip Hop Fo’ Hebrews.’  I about plotzed and immediately sent it on to the Irish Lad on Sunday morning with a warm and heartfelt greeting…in Yiddish.  Then I waited for the phone to ring.  “You nutter” Terry said when he rang, “You’re a right daft cow.”  Pinkie told me that she heard him laughing when he played it, and laughing even more when he replayed it, and then he called her to come watch it.  “You will not believe this clip that Jeano sent me.  She’s bloody bonkers.”  Advantage –  to the kinda-Jewish Italian American.  Give it your best shot, Irish Laddie.

I did, of course, have to give up the Volly on Sunday night to be extremely devout, but I think it was worth it.  You can’t have too many of those God folks on your side.  And, naturally, it’s not a good idea to piss any of them off, because we really don’t know which one is really in charge, do we?  I just hope Gabby the DJ wasn’t upset or thought it was because I didn’t want to go out with him.

There were about 120 people at the seder, which was conducted by Jackie, our rabbi.  Jeannette, the woman who drove me home from Saturday’s seder was there.  In fact, we had arranged to meet up and sit together.  However, when I got there, I discovered that there were assigned seats.  I was at the ‘Ma Nishtanah’ table.  Really.  I guess that was Adonai’s little joke on me about all the ‘Why is this night different’ cracks I’ve been making.  In fact, I have a tee shirt, which reads ‘Why is This T-shirt Different Than All Other T-shirts?’

Jackie greeted me warmly, and I wished her ‘a zisn pesach’.  “I don’t know that word.  What does it mean” she asked.  “It means ‘a sweet Passover’” I told her.  She said it was a beautiful expression, and wished me a Happy Passover in Hebrew.  What is it about people and Yiddish?

Then she told me that she’d sat me with some gentiles from some ecumenical group so that ‘I could explain what was going on.’  Ha Ha, very funny, Rabbi Chick.  “Doesn’t the Blockbuster in Weybridge have a copy of ‘The Ten Commandments’” I inquired, a bit nervously.

This seder was even longer than Saturday’s.  I know that’s hard to imagine, but it’s true.  And we did not pray in English at all; it was Hebrew all the way.

Jackie is a gifted teacher, and got everyone involved by asking probing, thought-provoking questions throughout.  I meant that statement; it wasn’t sarcasm.  And especially the children.  During the ‘ten plagues’ part, the children had masks signifying which plague they were, and they acted it out, i.e. the ‘frog’ jumped around.

The four cups of wine was definitely my favourite part; it was a wonderful Israeli red.  I hated spilling the ten drops when we recited the plagues; but I did not lick my finger – it’s not the done thing here.

The meal was, again, very different; no gefilte fish (gasp!) and the entrée was salmon.  This was due primarily to the fact that the synagogue kitchen is kosher, and preparing meat and serving it would be too complicated.  There was also a vegetarian ratatouille, which was delicious.

Many new people came over and introduced themselves to me.  They’d seen my picture and bio in the last issue of the Haderech, the synagogue newsletter.  Again, it was an eclectic mix of interesting and diverse people.  The woman sitting next to me was from Ecuador, and lives in Virginia Water.  Her daughter is a grad student at Harvard, and we chatted away about Boston and the Boston Pops.  Another woman who came over to introduce herself had lived in Malvern when she worked in Philadelphia.  We reminisced about the Mall…and cheese steaks, not the most appropriate topic during Pesach…or at the synagogue.

One jarring note to the evening was that members acted as ‘wardens’ in half-hour shifts, wearing orange vests and patrolling the perimeter of the complex.  When I asked why, a man at my table explained that there are eleven registered ‘hate groups’ within twenty miles of us, and there have been incidents in the past.  A scary and sobering thought.

On Monday, I did not burn down my kitchen.  Yes, I did it; I cooked fried matzoh.  I downloaded a few variations of the recipe, including one from the UK.  Before you start snickering, when I opened the box I discovered that the matzoh here is a different size.  It was probably baked in a 190 degree oven and then got cut into meters, not inches, but only after it refused to rise.  So I was a teensy bit confused about how many eggs to use.  I experimented, guessed really, and carried on.  It was delicious!  Not as good as Jerry made it, his was heavenly, but it almost tasted like fried matzoh, although it was a bit lumpy.  I was so chuffed that I invited all my mates to come for lunch.  Strangely, everyone is really tied up this week.

On Saturday, which was the First Night of Passover, I was a guest at a lovely seder hosted by a couple from North West Surrey Synagogue.  At this point, for non-Jewish readers, I should explain the whole story about Pharoah and Moses, and the ten plagues, and the unleavened bread.  Suggestion:  Rent ‘The Ten Commandments’ on DVD.  The special effects are cheesy, especially Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea, but you’ll get the general idea.

Kay and Michael live in Shepperton, which is quite close to Weybridge.   Pinkie drove me to their house, and I was meant to get a ride home from a man called ‘Moshe’.  Really.  I can’t make stuff this good up.  Moshe ended up not coming, so I got a ride home from someone else, but I still thought it was pretty ironic.  (The other ‘Moshe’ has apparently finally realized I’m not living off Exit 143 of the Garden State any more and moved on; he’s stopped emailing.)

There were about 24 people at the Seder, an interesting and eclectic group.  Kay and Michael are South Afrikans.  It was another one of those ‘Jeano Epiphanies’: Just like Dorothy, I was not in Kansas anymore.  Well, I never really was in Kansas, at least on purpose, except for quick trips for meetings and stuff, and that time I missed my connection on the way to Las Vegas.  No, that was Indianapolis or Minneapolis or St. Louis.  I meant I was not at the Adams Mark in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania with a hundred mishpocha who think Atlantic City is plenty ‘exotic’ and New York is ‘the hub of the civilized world’.  

I was a tiny bit nervous; hell, I was really freaked.  Would I do the Repubblica Italia proud?  (I’m Italian now; remember?)  “Have you seen the new James Bond exhibit yet at the Imperial War Museum?  I highly recommend it.  Yes, I read the article about the Pope in Time Magazine.  Did you know he’s eighty-one?”  (I knew swotting for that goddamned quiz would pay off somewhere.)  I changed outfits five times; ‘Too American’…’Too Jappy’….’Not Jappy Enough’…’God, I really look flat-chested in this sweater’…you know.

I was awed that Reform Jews take the seder so seriously.  We prayed, and then prayed a whole lot more.  We actually covered the cpmplete Haggadah, including the whole Elijah part (which the Cohens always abridged) and singing about the little goat after dinner.  At the Cohen seder, after listening to seventy-six little Cohens recite the Four Questions one after the other, people got a little crabby and started saying, “Can’t we eat already?”  I was usually well lit by the Mogen David Concord around the tenth little Cohen lisping “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

As a ‘visitor’ I was invited to ask the Four Questions.  I had prepared, and wowed the room by doing them in Yiddish, not Hebrew.  Then everyone joined in and sang them in Hebrew.  Another interesting detail is that their Haggadahs have no transliterations.  One is meant to actually read the Hebrew.  I think everyone there just pretended they were reading; they probably just memorized all one hundred pages of single-spaced prayers.

Dinner was lovely, although a bit different than what I’m used to.  They didn’t serve gefilte fish!  Not that I’m complaining; I hate the stuff.  In a convo with Stuart who rang to get the dish on my seder, he was aghast at this news.  “No gefilte fish?  I don’t think they’re really Jews.” 

The starter was salmon pate and, naturally, chopped liver, with delicious biscotti (just kidding; it was matzoh), or herring in a sweet tomato sauce.  There was matzoh ball soup for the second course.  (Fine with me; because I like matzoh ball soup.)  The main course was a choice of chicken or fish, with three different salads and kugel.  Dessert was actually delicious; there was a meringue and a homemade lemon sorbet, and fruit.

Of course, Michael did hide the afikomen; the person who found it got sweets instead of a Susan B. Anthony silver dollar.  The door was opened for Elijah, taking extreme care that Tigger the cat did not run away from home.  And the seder ended, as it should, with my favorite part, everyone saying ‘L’shana haba bi’Yerushalayim!” or ‘Next year, in Jerusalem!’ -  which is, it suddenly occurred to me, entirely feasible in my case.

BooBoo and I went to Kempton Park Racetrack in Sunbury-on-Thames.  Not to the horseracing; I’m not really very interested in short men on tall animals.  We went to the gigantic boot sale held there every Thursday.

Although it’s almost May, it was freezing cold and windy; thank goodness, or otherwise who knows how much shit I would have bought.  They sell absolutely everything from fresh meat to tellys.  I did buy some shoes.  Trying on shoes only required slipping out of my boot.  I saw about forty pairs of jeans that I lusted after (one pair—black ones – had big rhinestone crowns embossed on the pockets) but I wasn’t removing any of the six layers of clothing I was wearing to try them on at Ahmed’s Jeans-arama.  BooBoo swore a blood oath that we’d go again, when it’s warmer.  If it ever gets warmer.  I bought some really cute tops, too, one rather stunning mauve one that I got to go with the new skirt I bought (at the ‘posh’ charity shop in Walton) to wear to the First Seder.

I have been neglecting Cheese Boy lately, so I didn’t go to Live Music at Sullivan’s on Thursday night, opting to do the quiz at the Ash Tree instead with the Boy and the Irish Lad.  I should have gone to Sullivan’s with Julie.

I spent about two hours on Thursday surfing the news sites, so I’d been up on current events.  Did you know his Popiness turned 81 yesterday?  Mazel tov, your Popiness!  Did you know six African warriors from another goddamned country I never heard of ran in the London Marathon?  Did you read about the James Bond exhibit, ‘For Your Eyes Only’, which opened at the Imperial War Museum in London this week? 

It’s okay if you didn’t.  None of that came up in the quiz.

We had seven team members this week, eight counting Trigger, and we still came in next to last. I’m not making this up.  Sandra turned up this week, with her son and her new man, and Pinkie came after her shift at Charing Cross Casualties.  Either the questions were especially hard, or we were all distracted watching Sandra and her boyfriend snogging and groping each other in the corner by the Snooker Table.  And I got the only ‘American’ question wrong.  I didn’t even know there was an ‘Apollo 15’ mission. 

I did get the anagram one immediately.  In fact, I was so surprised I yelled out the answer a little too loudly.  Lou got a little shirty as all the teams sitting around us quickly wrote down ‘Michael Jackson’. 

Incidentally, while this was all going on, every bloke in the pub was simultaneously watching a very crucial soccer match on the giant screen tellys.  A team in yellow called ‘Samsung’ was playing a team in blue called something else.  I think the Irish Lad said they were the ‘Edmonton Oilers’ or something like that.  They were playing for something called the ‘Prime-ship’, which I expect is a boat. Maybe they won a Caribbean cruise.

Even more strangely, this bloke who chatted me up by the fruit machines told me the ‘Samsungs’ are actually called ‘Chelsea’.  It’s very confusing.  Then he asked me if I could talk ‘with a Southern accent’ ‘cause they ‘really turn him on’.  Never mind, that’s a completely different story.  I’m afraid I don’t know if the ‘Samsungs’ or the ‘Edmontons’ won, or if they got to have PKs.

Back to the quiz, the Irish Lad and I had our usual minor disagreement.  Question: Which country owns the Azore Islands?  Terry wrote down ‘USA’.  “Um, Terry, that’s wrong.  We don’t own the Azores.  Yes, I’m sure.  They would have mentioned it when I was at school.”  Several unkind remarks were exchanged, ending with “you’re Italian, not American.”  “Assolutamente esatto, Stupido” I shot right back (‘absolutely right, you blithering idiot).  But American still doesn’t own the Azores.  It’s Spain.” 

So what if it’s Portugal.  

Tuesday night was the Volunteers’ Recognition Dinner at the Senior Centre.  It included all the Tea Ladies, as well as the Meals on Wheels teams.  Although there is one male ‘Tea Lady’…I guess they call him a ‘Tea Gent’, there are only a few men on the Meals teams.

The Dining Room looked just like the Dining Room always does, except there were some vases of fake flowers on the tables.  I sat with Hester and Eve, who do alternate Tuesdays with me, and some Meals women, whom I did not know.  In one of those strange coincidences that always seem to happen to me, Cathy, who sat next to me, has a cousin who lives in Paoli.  So Cathy has been to Philadelphia many times.  We talked about the King of Prussia Mall (God, I miss the mall!), and she said that one of the places she quite enjoyed was Valley Forge National Park, which was a mile from my house.  As a point of interest to Philly readers, Cathy’s cousin was a reporter for the Bulletin before she retired.  (Yes, I meant the Bulletin.)

I am sad to report that DJ Jazzy Geoff did not spin records.  Jazzy apparently went to that great ‘American Bandstand’ in the sky right after the invitations were posted.  I guess he actually went to that great ‘Top of the Pops’ in the sky; he probably couldn’t get a visa to the Bandstand one.  So we were entertained by the Mumble Brothers instead.  They are exceedingly popular on the ‘Senior Centre’ musical circuit.  This is a fact; Mumble Brother Two announced it quite proudly.  I must try to get to the Hersham Centre to catch their next concert.

The Bros were two blokes, about eighty years old, who played guitars.  Only one, thankfully, sang.  The singing Mumble was quite clever.  He could make ‘Song Sung Blue’ sound exactly like ‘Strangers in the Night’.  In fact, everything sounded the same, even the Elvis numbers.  The Mumble Brothers were very fond of Elvis; they did about ten of his songs.  I did not recognize them.  Eve, who is a rabid Elvis fan, pointed them out as they slid past.

“Have you been to Graceland?” she asked wistfully, “I’ve always wanted to go.”  “Yep” I admitted, “The Convention & Visitors Bureau folks made us do the tour when I was in Memphis for a meeting.”  “What was it like?” Eve asked, all excited.  “I don’t remember” I had to tell her, “I just remember buying really tacky Elvis souvenirs as gag gifts for my friends.  And everybody in Memphis talks funny.”

Dinner was a buffet, but quite nice really, with a lovely chocolate mousse for the sweet.  The excitement wound down by 9:30 PM.  I walked home with Ernie, another of the Meals people I’d met.  I wasn’t worried in the slightest about picking up a strange man.  If he tried it on, I would have simply taken his Zimmer frame away from him and laughed when he fell over.

On Wednesday I went to the JACS meeting at the Synagogue.  JACS is the Jewish Association of Cultural Activities.  I’m not sure if this is an international organization, but it’s apparently huge in Britain, and the Weybridge branch has a strong membership from six different ‘local’ synagogues.  There’s a weekly programme, with tea afterwards, and, occasionally, a day trip.

This week’s speaker was a Rabbi, who had worked for MGM in his youth, and his talk was about the Jewish ‘movers and shakers’ in the American film industry in the 30’s and 40’s.  The lecture was interesting, but the turnout, disappointingly, was very small, probably because people are busy getting ready for Passover.  I ran into almost all of the women I’d met at the WIZO meeting last week.  Honestly, I already know enough women.

The Irish Lad popped in on Sunday.  Sheer bitchiness regarding the ‘language wars’ and Quiz Night compels me to report that he drove to my house.  It must be three blocks, and they’re not long ‘Philadelphia’ blocks.  Of course, he was delivering a new DVD player, but I think it weighs less than my 17” laptop.  I toted that to his every day until I got broadband from the Scots. It’s not ‘new’ new; it’s their old one.

I discovered that my unit, a combined VCR and DVD can’t read my American DVDs.  I had curled up on the sofa in my little pink lounge in my fuzzy pjs with the all over hearts  (a Christmas pressie from BooBoo) with a box of Kleenex  and a huge bag of black Twizzlers that I found in that last suitcase Mike brought to watch ‘Brian’s Song’ for the seven hundredth time.  I always cry.  And I miss real football. 

Anyway, BooBoo and I had had an unproductive lesson on ‘Teaching Jeano to Operate Mysterious British Devices’ and, finally, she had just written out instructions.  ‘Turn on Telly with black remote.’  Geeze,  I know that one already.  ‘Press the fourth button on the grey remote two times…I said two times…not three.’  ‘Turn off Sky on remote that says ‘SKY Remote.’’  “But what if Sky gets offended, like Challah and never, ever comes back?” I worried.  ‘Push the ‘on’ button on the silver remote.  Remember to actually insert a DVD.’  You might think I was clueless or something.  So I got through the twelve steps of preparing to watch a goddamned movie, and it wouldn’t work.  All I got was a message on the screen ‘Tough Shit, Philly Girl: Region One DVD’.  After obediently following BooBoo’s notes and not getting to spend the evening with James Caan and Billy Dee Williams, I required something a lot nicer than black Twizzlers – pink Zinfandel.

So Pinkie and Terry gave me their spare DVD player, which magically knows all about the ‘regions’ of the world and is not prejudiced towards moderately Jewish Italian Americans who are techno-deficient.  So they say.  It’s not hooked up yet.  I need some thingy, called a ‘spinal tap’ or a ‘Maryland bridge’ or something like that, so I can have the DVD/VCR player and the ‘I Play Any Region You Got’ DVD player both attached to the telly simultaneously.  I don’t even want to think about the new instructions BooBoo is going to have to write…’Not that remote, you daft cow!  The other silver one.’

I did go out on Sunday night to the Volly with BooBoo and the Boy.  I can’t write all the time, can I? No, I can’t; I run out of stuff to say.  The Irish Lad was most impressed by the mountain of inquiry letters piled by the front door to be posted on Monday.

There was a new pub slag at the Volly, at least new to BooBoo, the Boy and me.  Apparently, the usual crowd of drunken blokes knew her well…very well.  Her name is Mel.  She shared this factoid with me when we were both in the garden having a fag.  “Did you mean to wear that outfit?” I asked, “Or have all the mirrors in your house already ‘crack’d from side to side.’” Okay, but I thought it.  And she probably isn’t familiar with ‘The Lady of Shalott’ anyway.  There was a bloke out there too, dressed, I kid you not, in combat books, Bermuda shorts and an Hawaiian shirt.  I couldn’t resist asking, ‘What time does the luau start?”  He didn’t think it was especially witty.  BooBoo and the Boy did, when I repeated it to them.

The only moderately interesting thing that happened all night was that Gabby, the DJ, asked me out. 

I did very little socializing this weekend; shocking, isn’t it?  I worked…really hard.

BooBoo had pointed out (she’s SOOO practical) that literary agents and publishers are not beating a path to my door to pimp my voluminous literary efforts.  I am meant to contact them.  It’s tricky, sort of like who asks whom out on a date.  So I bought a book that tells you ‘Everything You Want to Know About Getting Your Masterpiece Published and Making Oodles of Lolly”.  I paraphrased there, of course, but I am certainly interested in Oodles of Lolly, especially given my taste for boots and M. Louis Vuittan.

According to ‘Everything’, the damned manuscript is just the beginning.  You need other stuff too.  Like a biographical sketch, a jacket blurb and a synopsis, and a clever, witty cover letter.  And I thought writing the novel was onerous! 

I binned the first few drafts of my ‘bio’.  Obviously they’d probably find out I’m not twenty-five, with a PhD in Dead Languages from the University of Pennsylvania.  Hey, it was witty, clever and funny, especially the part about Pond traversing between our palazzo on the Amalfi Coast and our penthouse in Newark, New Jersey.  The actual facts were so … mundane. 

I finally wrote a sparkling, cogent synopsis, an exciting, pulse-pounding blurb, and an almost truthful, hardly any big whoppers, biography.  (Hey…if any agents call you to check, remember – I was Miss Italy in 1975 and the Queen is one of my many cousins.)  

At this point, I hated both novels and the blog, and considered deleting all of them, and becoming a mail-order bride to support my habits.  BooBoo encouraged me to ‘carry on and stop whinging’ so I’ve been busy sending out huge missives to literary agents.  Unkindly, they keep sending them back.  Watch this space for more details.

I had an interview on Friday for another volunteer position.  This one is at the Sam Beare Charity Shop.  Sam Beare’s charity is a Cancer Hospice, so I do feel like this one is appropriate and meaningful, not that confused senior citizens doesn’t hit home, too.  I wonder if I get a ‘volunteer discount’ on tchatkes.

Sam Beare has two shops on the High Street, and I got offered a position at the Book Store one.  I am really chuffed.  What could be better than being surrounded by books?  In fact, my supervisor, Cathy, already called and asked me to cover a few shifts.  Cathy is American, from Long Island, but I will try not to let that bother me too much.  Officially we are waiting for my ‘police check’ but I don’t foresee any difficulties, as long as they don’t ask Immigration.  (Of course, I used my passporti Italiano for identification.)  As far as I know, that book writing, volunteering terrorist person is still living off Exit 143 of the Garden State, patiently waiting for Britain to capitulate and graciously grant her a seven day visa.

Booboo and I did our river walk on Friday, along the Thames.  I actually met a couple, walking their dog, whom I know from synagogue.  We stopped and chatted for a few minutes, and they inquired how I was getting on with settling in.  I said ‘fine’ and mentioned that I’d gone to Friday night services last week for ‘testers’.  Yes, they knew, Paul told me.  Several people had asked Jackie where I was on Saturday morning, and she had explained that I’d been there on Friday night.  I love little towns, and friendly little shuls.  There is definitely ‘a place for me’ in both and I am quite loving it.  Marilyn told me that she and Paul were conducting the service on Saturday morning this week, and I assured them that I would be there.

Just so you don’t think things are always perfect in Weybridge, as BooBoo and I, with Trigger, strolled along enjoying the sunshine and lovely spring weather, a storm rolled in, deluging us with giant hail stones and strong winds.  And it must have dropped thirty degrees in two minutes.  We headed back to mine, but had to stop and call in at the Old Crown on the way.  We were soaking wet and freezing.  We sat and lingered over a nice coffee until the storm passed over.

I did go to services on Saturday morning.  Marilyn and Paul did a brilliant job.  Although I’m a ‘not really a believer’, it seems like every week the lesson has some key element that has a special meaning for me and makes me think.  That’s actually pretty scary.  This week, I was offered an aliyah, which I politely declined.  The Torah portion was from Leviticus, and dealt with Cohenim and their responsibilities as priests in the Temple.  At the Oneg Shabbat, Paul mentioned the coincidence too.  “After all, you’re a ‘Cohen” he teased.  “No, I’m not” I corrected him.  “I married a Cohenim.  He took the responsibility seriously; I didn’t.”

Oh.  And Fabien from Paris, by way of Ohio, was there this week.  He couldn’t resist mentioning that the bloody Buckeyes won the NIT by crushing UMass.  Like anybody cares.  “How did your teams do in March Madness?” he inquired smugly.  Sacrebleu!  “Pardonez moi, Cherie” I told him.  “I gotta go talk to Ena about the Oneg Rota.”

On Tuesday, my partner at the Tea Bar was ill and didn’t come in.  What a difference a year or so makes!  I was totally calm and collected, making endless cups of ‘nice’ tea and ‘not American’ coffee, Jeano.’  I know all the prices, and the currency now, and was able to say brightly “Seventy-eight pence, please!” and then “No, Peter; that’s only sixty-four p; go and get your purse.  No, the nice tea and sausage roll stays here until you come back with the rest.”

Vi, who mans the Tea Bar on Wednesdays, was ill too, so Sanjay, the Manager, asked me if I could fill in.  I feel like I’m doing my little part by volunteering, so I said ‘sure’.  I had forgotten that Wednesday is the Alzheimer & Dementia Group day.  Jack, Paula’s Jack, used to go. 

Conversation with customer:  “When is the bus trip to Horsham?” Me: “It leaves at half-one today.”  Customer: “One-o’clock, tomorrow?”  Me: “Righto, Joyce. Spot on!”  I figured somebody would stick her on the bus at the appropriate time.

Ten minutes later she’s back at the counter.  “When is the bus trip to Horsham, Vi?”  Me: “It leaves at half-one today.  And it’s Jeano; Vi isn’t here today.”  Customer: “One-o’clock?  Tomorrow, Vi?”  Me:  Righto, Joyce.  Can’t pull a fast one on you, can I?”

At one point, I did see a really handsome man wandering around the Centre.  Hm, I thought, maybe I should switch to Wednesdays.  Perhaps he visits his elderly Mum on Wednesdays.  Then the Alzheimer & Dementia Group Moderator came out and corralled him, taking him back to their meeting.  Hm, I pondered optimistically, at least we wouldn’t get bored if we started dating.  It would be just like ‘Fifty First Dates.”

BooBoo picked me up at the Centre at noon, and we drove over to pick up Mischa for a girls’ lunch and shop.  We decided to go to Cobham, because I needed to go to the Waitrose there.  According to the ladies at WIZO, that is the only supermarket in all of Surrey that carries ‘Pesach’ food.  One can, of course, go into London to Golder’s Green, where the British Orthodox Jews all live, but I didn’t want fried matzoh that badly.

After lunch and the obligatory reccy through every charity shop, we walked into Waitrose.  I wandered around for a while, but didn’t see any mountains of matzoh boxes.  I finally went to the service desk and asked “Where is the Passover section?”  “The what?” asked the Manager.  “The Passover Aisle” I repeated.  “Gefilte fish…borscht…macaroons….kosher for Passover Diet Coke.”

He conferred with his assistant, who nodded and took me to the bread aisle, and proudly pointed out the loaf of rye bread.  “No” I said, getting a little ticked, “Not bread.  Jews can’t eat bread during Passover, you prat!  The other stuff.”  He was a little baffled at this point, and conferred with eight or nine other employees.  “Aha!” he said, and walked me to a shelf in a corner.  And there it all was; three boxes of matzohs, a jar of gefilte fish (just one), and some chocolates.  I quickly latched on to the chocolates (before somebody else grabbed them) to take as a ‘hostess gift’ to the hospitable folks in Shepperton who invited me to their First Seder next Saturday night.  I had been resigned to taking flowers.

 And I bought some matzohs for fried matzoh.  They don’t call it ‘fried matzoh here, I discovered.  No one knew what I was talking about.  It’s called ‘egg & matzoh’.  Hopefully, someone will invite me for luncheon before I have to attempt making it myself.  I’m pretty sure Poppins, the closest thing we have in Weybridge to a ‘deli’, doesn’t serve it.

Pinkie’s parents were in for a quick visit, and I was invited for a proper ‘Sunday Roast’ on Thursday night, prepared by the Irish Lad.  Seriously, Terry cooked.  It was wonderful.  I guess you have to be born here to know how.  It’s amazing what some people can create in a 190 degree oven.  Margaret, Pinkie’s mom, did bake and for dessert there was a decadent chocolate cake and a jam roll. 

After dinner, we all walked up the High Street to Sullivan’s, for Live Music…with Paul Stroble.

I know that I’ve mentioned Paul before.  He was my second favorite singer, after Robbie Lee.  But I think Paul has now moved into first place.

Paul made quite a fuss when he saw me, and he was extremely complimentary.  Well, that was all good, of course.  Then he embarrassed me by announcing, through his mic to the whole bloody pub full of drunks and badly dressed pub slags, that I was back, that I’d lost nine stone, and that everyone should give me a round of applause.  I thought I would die.

Paul started his set with the opening chords of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ and laughed.  “No, I won’t do it” he told me and sang the Eagles ‘Peaceful, Easy Feeling’ dedicated to me.  “I know you love the Eagles” he told me.  True, but the ‘other’ Eagles; I didn’t try to explain.  He was, as always, positively brilliant.  Did I mention that Paul is a roofer by trade and a musician by avocation?

During the break, Paul came over to chat with me, asking what my plans are this time, if I’m staying, and so on.  I was absolutely gobsmacked when he said “I read your blog.  I really enjoy it.”  “How did you hear about my blog?” I asked, frantically trying to remember if I’d said anything catty about his wife in it.  “Remember” he reminded me, “Everybody in the Grotto talked about it all the time.  Pinkie gave Robbie the web address, and he gave it to me.”

I think I might actually be a famous person soon.

I had a bit of a guilt trip this weekend.  My wedding anniversary slipped by me, and I didn’t even remember it.  We would have been married 34 years on April 4.  I felt terrible. How could I forget something as important as that?  I don’t want to ever forget Jerry… and our life together.  But I don’t want to be melancholy and depressed either. So I consoled myself that obviously Jerry hadn’t remembered either, or he would have turned up at 3:00 in the morning to remind me.  Maybe he was busy, too.

Needless to say, life – mine, in particular – has to go on, and it is. 

On Sunday afternoon, James rang that he was at the Grotto and did I want to meet him for a drink.  Fortunately, the blizzard had stopped, so I trooped up Monument Hill to spend a few pleasant hours nattering to James.  James’ mobile has a setting where you have a picture of your friends next to their number.  When they call or text him, the picture appears on his screen.  Naturally, my picture is me wearing that bloody Giants jacket.  And he did remind me that I promised to post the pictures on my blog, punishment for losing the damned bet on the Super Bowl.

I had to leave so I could go home and change to go to the Volly for the weekly ‘Slags Dressed Really, Really Badly’ Show.  The slags did not disappoint.  The outfits were hilarious; unintentionally, I’m sure. This week, I got Cheese Boy to actually take pictures.  Really.  I will post them as soon as I get them.  And the pictures of my little house.

On Monday, I went to my first WIZO meeting, the local chapter of the Women’s International Zionist Organization.  WIZO is the largest Jewish women’s organization in Great Britain and provides social welfare services in Israel.  It was a luncheon at the home of one of the members in Cobham.

I’m not sure what I thought.  I’m not, and never have been, fond of ‘ladies groups’ of any kind.  Although the members who were there were very welcoming and friendly, it’s not really my niche.  I’m not sure I’ll go again.

I got a fantastic email from friends back in the States, who had caught up on the soap opera that is my life via my blog.  “It’s amazing” they wrote, “how you were able to do an end run on the immigration barrier.  Your ingenuity is awe-inspiring!”  I am really special, aren’t I?

I’m ending with some very good advice for female readers.

Five important tips for a woman.....

1. It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2. It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3. It is important to find a man you can count on and doesn't lie to you.
4. It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.

         and:

5. It is important that these four men don't know each other.

The weather was absolutely glorious on Friday, a picture perfect English spring day.  BooBoo and I did our favourite walk, along the Thames, and I was in just a tee shirt and sweater.  Of course, on Saturday it poured buckets, and I woke up on Sunday to a blizzard, at least to the Brits.  The snow actually stuck (laid to Americans) and awed children were everywhere building snowmen and trying to figure out how to make snowballs.

I went to Friday night services at Shul this week instead of Saturday morning with my new friend, Brenda.  On the first Friday of the month, the Oneg Shabbat is a communal dinner.  And yes, I brought a dish, prepared by my own lily white hands.  As anything consumed at the synagogue must be kosher, I couldn’t cheat and pass off one of Mr. Waitrose’s ready meals as my own concoction.

I made my famous tortellini salad, classily presented in the awesome blue and gold bowl that Pat gave me.  I’m proud to report that my offering got gobbled up quickly.  I also have to boast that several women asked me where I bought the bowl when we were washing up after the meal.  Well, they were washing up; I was observing.  I admitted that it was a pressie from an American friend.

The meal was lovely although there were a lot of foods I didn’t recognize.  I was adventurous and tried almost everything.  And, more importantly, again I met all sorts of new and very interesting people.  I still haven’t attended all of the social functions that I’d be interested in; I simply don’t have enough time.  I must try to make the bookclub, the lecture series, the film night and Biblical Hebrew classes.  (Just kidding on that last one.)

Ena, the Membership Chairperson, brought me two gifts; one is a lovely book called ’What is Reform Judaism?’, and the other is a CD of the Erev Shabbat and Shabbat Shacharit Melodies used in the synagogue service so that I can learn them.  The members have not heard me sing.  They may be very sorry they encouraged me.  

Jackie, our rabbi, is very charismatic and a born ‘teacher, which is, of course, what ‘rabbi’ means.  The group discussion after the meal was about the Four Questions asked at the Seder during Pesach.  “Why is this night different from all other nights?”  Jackie suggested eight other questions to raise at our seders for discussion.  I’m including four of them here to use at your own seders.

1.     We begin the Seder by inviting strangers to come and eat with us.  Who is the one person you would like to have as a guest at your seder?

2.     While we keep hearing of great archeological discoveries, very little archeological proof has been found regarding the story of the exodus.  Does that put your faith into question?  Do you believe that the exodus took place?  If not, why aren’t you eating a bagel tonight?

3.     In the Hagaddah we say “in every generation they rise up to destroy us.”  Why is that?  Are the Arabs out to destroy us?

4.     Horseradish became the most used ‘bitter herb’ because the more preferred romaine lettuce was unavailable in Eastern Europe.  Today, everything seems to be available, even Pasta L’Pesach (obviously to commemorate the Jewish exodus from Italy).  Do such products enhance or detract from the Pesach experience?

I got just the tiniest twinge of homesickness the other day.  I was at the little shop run by seventy-two interchangeable Indians (but not the Chief Halftown kind), which is also the Post Office.  I was posting my income tax returns.  The bloke in the turban laughed meanly and said they’d had a slew of dazed looking Americans in the last few days.  “Yeah, please send it certified, special handling, airmail, return receipt requested” I instructed.  Amazingly, in April’s e-newsletter from the American Embassy, they said not to even think about mailing it to them or popping in for a coffee and dropping it off.  They won’t take them.  It’s a scary thought; trusting the Royal Mail.

 “We don’t do any of that” Hari Kumar, or whichever of the Kumars he was, replied.  Of course not.  I’m in Britain.  Their idea of fun is to be as unhelpful as possible and watch the American have a sissy-fit.  “Well do whatever it is that you might possibly, totally by accident, inadvertently do to get it across the bloody Pond by April 15” I said.  Hari, or Muhatma,  got snippy.  I got snippier.  “Hey, Jewel in the Crown Guy, I have made sales clerks in the Chanel Handbags Department at Neiman Marcus cry in under ten seconds.  Do you know how tough those clerks are?  I don’t think you want to go head to head with me.” 

We traded a few more insults, and I think we agreed that that 90 year old bloke on the bicycle with the yellow vest is going to cycle to Philadelphia and drop it off at the IRS Service Center.

Tuesday was Tea Lady day.  Hester and I were chuffed to receive our invitations to the Annual Volunteers Recognition Dinner next week.  I have been twice before; it’s a wild night with the wine flowing freely (until 7:30 PM)  and music provided by DJ Jazzy Geoff.  I was relieved to learn that Jazzy G is still with us, rocking and rolling; he must be ninety.  I’m sure I will have some scintillating tidbits to report after the dinner.  I must remember not to make any plans for the day after; I’ll probably be exhausted from the ‘party hearty’.

BooBoo and Pinkie came for lunch on Tuesday, nothing fancy, just sandwiches.  But we sat in my tiny dining alcove just laughing and nattering about clothes and men, and our lives.  I got positively tearful.  Sometimes it just hits me that this is real; I’m here, where I so wanted to be, and during that long year back in the States, these are the moments I dreamed about.  Booboo came on Thursday to walk, and as we sat having a coffee in my lounge, she looked around and said “If you decide to leave again, I’m not packing and storing your stuff this time.  Where did it all come from?”  I looked around too.  I have to admit she’s right.  I have feathered my little pink nest charmingly, and it is crammed with tchotckes, some from friends like Pat, and lots and lots from the charity shops.  And that’s not counting the furniture I bought from the previous tenant and what I bought.  Cheese Boy did come ‘round and take some new pictures.  I’ll post them soon.

I’ve not mentioned Scary Fairy in a while.  My roomie and I do speak every week, and I confess (she’ll take the mickey forever) that I miss the cutthroat Scrabble.  I’ve still not found a player here at my level.  Anyway, Scary is managing without me (so she claims), and she will have a visit in the summer from Pinkie, Irish Lad, and the kids.  But it’s not the same as me, I know.  She’s had some medical problems lately, and is laid up right now after knee surgery.  Feel free to email her with get well wishes and tasteless, vulgar jokes.

Now for the real news.  Last night I went to Live Music…at Sullivans.  Guess who was playing?  Right.  Robbie Lee!  Was that a coincidence or what?  The Grotty has stopped doing live music completely, and there has definitely been a lack of interesting musical pub evenings.  I went with the Irish Lad and Bald Rob, and met Julie there.  Of course I knew Robbie was playing; I blew Cheese Boy and his Quiz Night off without a thought.  He was miffed, but not enough to not keep texting me with desperate pleas for help with the questions.

Julie is a singer too, and does gigs with Robbie.  She had said we would be meeting other friends of hers at Sully’s; she just forgot to mention one was Robbie’s wife, Tina.  I was very nice, and almost polite.  Robbie was appropriately thrilled to see me, and opened with ‘Sultans of Swing’ dedicated to me.  It’s my favorite Dire Straits song.  He did tease me a few

times by saying “I’ve had a request for ‘Sweet Home Alabama’.  Should I sing it, Jeano?”  Thankfully, he didn’t do it.

I may have to skip the Quiz next week, too.  Live Music…at Sullivans…it’s Paul Stroble.